Natural Defense
by LabyrinthineMind
Summary: Takes place after the third episode. Warning. I would tell you what the warning is for, but that would kind of destroy the plot. That would be rubbish. It's about Sherlock and his mind and poor John. Give it a try.
1. Moriarty

**DISCLAIMER: **I do not own Sherlock. I'm pretty sure everything goes back to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I love him. Very much actually. But that's off topic is it not?

**So, this is a continuation of the series one finale. However, it is not. I get the distinct impression that there will be no explosion. This is just what would happen if it did, in my opinion. **

Natural Defense

_"Catch. You... Later."_

_Then came Moriarty's high pitched giggle, as if the very notion sent a trill of excitement through him, "No you won't." _

_Sherlock evaluated John for a moment, collecting his faculties before diving towards his flatmate. Sherlock evaluated quickly. No trigger. No mechanism that would cause their end the moment he touched the bomb. _

_"Alright? Are you alright?" he demanded of John, who was suddenly much, much paler. With the threat of becoming nothing more than pink mist less imminent now, the epinephrine that had kept John so steady through the stressful situations was ebbing away, leaving him trembling. _

_"Yeah..." a shaky breath from John, "Yeah, fine." John was a soldier, so he had been calm through the entire ordeal, not even the slightest tremor, but now... he was shaken. Sherlock was shaken too, which was almost more frightening than the experience itself. Sherlock ripped the thick parka from John's steady shoulders, followed by the bomb, swinging them with a significant amount of force away from them both. _

_He was so focused on that little bomb that he hardly acknowledged the way John was shouting his name, trying to break him from his panicked trace. Sherlock didn't know why he felt epinephrine pumping through his veins now. In all honestly, it didn't really make sense. He felt like John was somehow his responsibility, and seeing that bomb strapped to the man he had pulled into the sinister world that Moriarty had created left a slightly sick feeling in his gut. He didn't get attached to people. People were dull. John wasn't as dull as most people. Sherlock didn't like anyone touching _his_ things. He didn't take the time to ponder the switch from flatmate to possession, because he was running for the door, in search of the man who had caused his John to have that look of fear in his eyes._

_There was nothing. Moriarty was gone. He tried to calm himself by walking in long strides back to John, who had collapsed against the wall, the epinephrine finally draining away completely, leaving him breathless and hollowed. His skin was so pale that it was almost translucent. They were still alive. _

_Sherlock started to pace, back and forth, his mind whirring at imperceptible speeds but somehow getting nowhere. This was not something to which he was accustomed. This not being able to think. It was frightening and he hated Moriarty for making him feel this way._

_"Are you okay?"_

_Sherlock turned his attention back to John, who had to look worse than Sherlock, perched against that wall, shaking so obviously now. Why would he ask such a stupid question?_

_"Me? Yeah. Fine. I'm fine," he told John with a jolt; repeating it to himself again, just to drive it home to himself. _

_"That, uh, thing, that you, uh, that you did... that you offered to do. That was, um," he paused, unsure what to say, but knowing that John would understand his thanks either way. John had this thing where he generally understood. He may not have been able to keep up with Sherlock's brain, but he could usually manage Sherlock's merger feelings. "Good."_

_"I'm glad no one saw that."_

_Sherlock shot John a look, an uncomprehending one, "Hm?"_

_John met his eyes and gave a thin lipped smile, "You ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk."_

_"They do little else."_

_John had recovered quickly and they were finally going to get out of the swimming pool, but suddenly a shower of little red lights came for them, centring on their chests, finding their hearts. Sherlock repressed the urge to curse. He would not give Moriarty the satisfaction._

_Moriarty's voice flooded the quiet room again, "Sorry boys, I'm soooooooo changeable."_

_He sounded like he was having far too much fun. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to change that. _

_Moriarty was still talking, but Sherlock was rather focused on the look on John's face. Such defeat, like a child who had just found out his trip to DisneyLand had been cancelled._

_Moriarty broke through Sherlock's thoughts with a shot to the only thing that really mattered, keeping John alive, "You can't be allowed to continue, you just can't."_

_Sherlock's mind was reeling, looking for escapes, calculating a mile a minute, but everything lead to a rather unfortunate end. _

_"I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind," Moriarty gave a gleeful chuckle and a skitter of discomfort ran down Sherlock's spine. Even to him this man seemed sickening. His gun reflexively found Moriarty's head. _

_"I imagine that probably my answer has crossed yours," Sherlock lowered his gun, directing it at the bomb laying forgotten at Moriarty's feet. He just hoped that he would not miss. He saw John was the corner of his eye. Stupidly loyal John, who Sherlock had dragged into this nodded, as if giving his consent. Sherlock was sure he would have done it either way, but he would never know for sure. He felt the cold metal of the gun trigger beneath his finger, slowly warming with the heat of his body. _

_The noise was so terrifically loud that it seemed his ears couldn't take it. It was so loud that it was silent. His mind was telling him so many facts at once, dragging so many things from his hard drive forward for one last fleeting glance. It was like he was in the midst of the end of the world and this was the detonation point. Ground zero. The centre of the Big Bang. Then the loudest quietest noise dissolved. He could feel something hitting the skin of his cheeks, like raindrops, but harder, maybe hail. It was cold. Then everything went completely and utterly black. So black, in fact, that there was no blackness at all. There was nothing. He felt, saw, and heard _nothing_. _

Sherlock swam towards consciousness, his mind slowly surfacing from that utter nothingness that he had been submerged so deeply in for what seemed like an eternity. He felt like he was experiencing the world from the bottom of a murky pond. He cracked his eyes open, the light that flooded in made seemed to knock all his senses back into place. He wanted to dive back into the pond. His ears were ringing, his eyes were extremely sensitive to the light, and he felt as if he was swimming in a sea of nausea and clouded thoughts. Everything hurt. He closed his eyes tightly. Something soft and warm patted the back of his hand and he heard a murmured voice.

**This opening bit is really just a recap of the ending of the last episode. From here it gets to the real story. Anyway, for those of you waiting on Golden Stare and my Merlin story, do not fear, I will one day update. Life has just been hectic. Like really, really hectic. My bad. **


	2. I am Concussed

**So, I do hope that you all will find this interesting. We will soon be getting to the point of the story. Do tell me if you figure out what is going on. Enjoy!**

"John?" he squinted, feeling the nausea build as more light struck like tiny knives into his brain. He could see the fuzzy outline of his far too loyal roommate. "John. I... I don't feel very well. What happened? Where am I?"

He knew what happened. He always remembered things perfectly. He could remember vividly the way the gun felt in his hand and the look of affirmation John had given him the moment before he blew them all to smithereens. He sensed another person on his right side. He set to the gargantuan task of turning his head, wincing painfully as he succeeded. He squinted, seeing the deflated form of Lestrade hovering over his bed come into a blurry focus. He turned his head back towards John with a great deal of effort, but his fuzzy form was no longer perched on the chair to Sherlock's left. Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, observing his surroundings with his other senses. He could hear the faint rustle of a curtain, suggesting this was not a private room, he was divided from another patient by one of those noisy hospital curtains. The light was bright enough to shine through his eyelids and produce a painful throbbing. This meant his roommate was not incapacitated, or that they required frequent monitoring from hospital staff. He could tell by the smell in the room that he was not an emergency patient. The room was quiet aside from Lestrade's breathing, and the beep of a heart monitor, but that may have just been his ears. He deduced that he was in St. Catherine's, the closest hospital to the _scene_.

"Sherlock," Lestrade's voice seemed like it was coming from very far away. Sherlock was completely awake, which meant his ears were somehow damaged. It made sense; explosions can cause all kinds of damage to the inner ear. Panic settled into his stomach at the thought of losing one of his primary senses. He relied on all of them to do his work, and without the work his brain would rot. He quelled the feeling forcefully, finding himself slightly emotional in this situation was disconcerting.

When Sherlock opened his mouth to talk his voice was hoarse— smoke or debris inhalation, he noted—, "I am concussed."

"Yeah—" Lestrade sounded like he was going to talk more, so Sherlock waved a hand to stop him, feeling his hand restricted by something—another note, an IV.

"Let me finish. I am concussed," Sherlock repeated, keeping his eyes firmly closed.

"Yes," Lestrade replied, sounding very, very tired.

"I am concussed, so if you are going to insist on talking to me while I am concussed I am going to need you to pass me a bin."

Lestrade's voice had gone up an octave when he spoke again—Note, surprise—, "Are you feeling ill?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes beneath his lids, "I am in a hospital, I thought we had already determined that I am concussed, and a primary symptom of concussion is nausea and vomiting. I know you are not John, but at least you should know that much."

A warning tone, mixed with some sort of depression, "Yeah."

This was not characteristic of the detective inspector. So much was Sherlock's curiosity that he opened his eyes to examine Lestrade. That was his first mistake. The inspector was broken down, his eyes rimmed red with black bruises that gave credence to the theory that Lestrade had not slept in some time—Note, the inspector has shed tears—, his entire frame was slumped forward and he was slightly covered with a thin layer of dust—Note, he had visited the scene of the explosion. He had sat in the chair by Sherlock's bed, as if he had decided to say for the remainder of the... day? Night? How long had Sherlock been unconscious? He induced that it could not have been more than two days, as the inspector had not yet left to get cleaned up, or change his clothes. Sherlock, however, had been changed by someone else. It was an uncomfortable thought. His mind was still working, it took less than a second to discover all of this after he opened his eyes, "I would really like that bin now."

Lestrade hastily snatched an emesis bowl from the trolly to his right and handed it to Sherlock. Sherlock was not a man easily embarrassed. In fact, he was a sociopath and very rarely felt anything remotely similar to the feeling. So he was not at all worried about Lestrade seeing him in a very prone state. Sherlock sat himself up quickly, which was his second mistake, because everything _hurt._ Sherlock had been in pain before. He had done stupid things when chasing a criminal. He had even had concussions before, but nothing like this. Not ever. Pain radiated through his body, starting in his head. Oh, his poor, genius head.

An ice pick. Yes. Somehow, Moriarty had stabbed him in the head with an ice pick.

"Sherlock," the inspector's voice was hesitant.

"No nurse."

Sherlock saw Lestrade nod out of the corner of his eye, and then he was vomiting. It came suddenly, in a rush out of his mouth and nose simultaneously. It burned and he knew he had not eaten in some time. They had to be rehydrating him intravenously for him to be vomiting at all. He gagged and coughed and choked for a few minutes before spitting into the bin. For now the nausea coiled happily, subdued, in the pit of his stomach. He hoped it would not become agitated again.

Lestrade passed him a tissue and took the bowl with all the strength of will that being an inspector required. Thank goodness he was not the squeamish type.

Sherlock blew his nose and looked at Lestrade again. When he spoke his voice was harsher than before, "You've been crying."

Lestrade did not acknowledge the comment, but Sherlock still knew he was correct.

"I'm fine," Sherlock muttered. "I can't see why a concussion is worth crying over. I still have possession of all my limbs, do I not?" He wriggled his toes, just to be absolutely sure. He was not attached to much, but he had grown rather partial to his limbs.

"You're not worth anyone's tears," Lestrade snapped, but took a deep breath and apologised. "Long day."

Sherlock nodded, unbothered by the comment. It didn't matter that Lestrade would not cry if he died. He would not be around to see it anyway. Still the inspector looked too distressed, so Sherlock did not press.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said, after some minutes of silence.

"Can we turn the lights off?" Sherlock interrupted. "They are making feel very much like I am going to vomit again."

"Sorry," Lestrade shook his head. "You have a roommate."

"I know," Sherlock replied, not letting himself assume it was John, though that seemed like a logical conclusion. He needed more facts. "Can't you ask them if they would mind? They probably don't want to listen to me be sick anymore."

"I don't think he would notice," Lestrade said, his voice very, very strained. "But we're still supposed to keep them on."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and attempted to flop onto his side, away from Lestrade, just to demonstrate just how annoyed he was, but the sudden movement just pushed his nausea over the edge. Lestrade handed a clean bowl to him when Sherlock froze into place and paled. Sherlock retched loudly, but was unable to produce even bile from his tortured and empty stomach.

Lestrade stood, "I'm, uh, going to fetch your doctor."

He left Sherlock clinging to his vomit bowl for dear life. A moment later John was at his side again. Sherlock ran his hand through his hair and sighed, placing the bowl on his lap, just in case.

"Where did you go? I saw you when I first woke up."

John didn't even look injured. Sherlock thought he should be jealous, but really his was relieved. It was an odd sensation.

"Tea," John explained. Sherlock chose not to mention that John was not carrying a cup of tea. A clear lie.

"How do you feel?" John asked.

"Fine."

"But really?"

"Horrible. I hurt and my stomach hates me."

"You're concussed."

"I know."

John sat down in the chair opposite the one Lestrade had occupied as a man in a white lab coat pushed through the curtain, followed by Lestrade. The Doctor was young and seemed genuinely startled when Sherlock said, "How is your new ginger kitten fairing?"

**Leave a :) in the comments, if you love Sherlock. **


	3. Examination

**Getting ever so close to the point of this story now! Yay! Enjoy!**

"Sherlock," Lestrade groaned. Sometimes even Sherlock realised that he had a way of pushing the constraints of what was socially accepted.

The young doctor regained his senses quickly, "Hm, quite well. May I ask how you knew? As a test of your cognitive abilities, of course."

"Of course," Sherlock straightened himself. "There are small shallow cuts on your hands and wrists, as well as small puncture marks. These suggest the possession of a cat, likely new, as they are more prone to biting when they are young. The hairs clinging to your black pants are orange. Suggesting a ginger cat or a tabby. I made the guess that your kitten was an orange cat, was I correct in my assumption?"

Sherlock glanced over at John, who was smiling, as if pleased with Sherlock's deduction. He was happy that he had impressed John again. The Doctor balanced himself and offered Sherlock a shallow smile, "Well, there is nothing wrong with your head, is there?"

"On the contrary, it is causing me a great deal of trouble at the moment."

The Doctor nodded, "We will talk about that in a moment. Right now, I would like to examine your other wounds. I'll be your doctor for the remainder of your stay."

"I already have a doctor."

"Sherlock," John's voice came as a warning.

"Fine," Sherlock sighed to no one in particular.

"We'll start with the wounds on your back."

Sherlock wasn't sure what he meant, but he subjected himself to the examination. If he did not, John would certainly scold him. He would have preferred at that John examine him, he was his doctor, after all.

"Should I step out?" Lestrade asked, but no one acknowledged his question. Sherlock was surprised, because usually when Sherlock was not in the mood for talking, John would answer vaguely in his stead.

"I'm going to lift your shirt now," the doctor explained. "Please, lean forward."

Sherlock did as he was told. A first, by any standards.

"You instinctively turned away from the explosion, so most of the wounds are on your back."

Sherlock could not see his back, but he now felt the wounds with much more clarity, as the doctor was prodding them with a gloved hand.

"Describe them," Sherlock demanded, earning a slight glare from John.

"You've two large cuts that required stitches along your shoulder blades, a few minor cuts that have been taped, and your back is a mosaic of black and blue."

Sherlock gave a nod and winced when his head twanged.

"On the back of your head there is a two inch cut where you were nailed by a support beam."

"That certainly explains the headache."

The doctor chuckled.

Sherlock leaned back, sending little tendrils of pain up and down his spine.

"Your chest took the brunt of your fall into the pool deck, so you have some bruised ribs, but nothing too severe. You've a couple broken fingers though."

Sherlock nodded again, examining this hand. His violin hand, too. The thought of not playing his violin for some time irked him deeply. John seemed to know this, and gently patted his hand, as if avoiding the broken fingers. Sherlock did not expect the display before the man examining him, but he did not protest.

"You have a few superficial cuts on your face, but they'll heal nicely enough. Your ears were damaged in the explosion, but not as badly as they should have been, so you were lucky there. The tears have been glued and you should regain most of your hearing within a couple of weeks. The concussion is pretty bad and you'll likely be feeling dizzy and nauseous for a while."

"Joy."

The doctor went on, undeterred, "No reading or TV. How is the nausea now?"

"Fine," Sherlock waved the bowl triumphantly.

"Please," the doctor turned to Lestrade. "Make sure he keeps sipping water. It will make things easier on him."

Lestrade gave a firm nod and the doctor turned on Sherlock again, "I'm very sorry. I truly am."

Sherlock wondered again if there was something terribly wrong with him that no one was telling him about. A few cuts were unfortunate, and his fingers were a tragedy, but that doctor would not recognise those facts. He should not have been sorry.

When the doctor was gone Lestrade took a deep breath, "Sherlock, we need to talk about what happened."

"Right now?" Sherlock complained. "Honestly. I know I don't have a blanket or anything, but this must constitute some kind of shock for normal people."

He looked at John for confirmation. John looked exasperated, but John always looked like that when Sherlock was being difficult.

"Really Sherlock," Lestrade pressed. "You need to know what happened."

"I know what happened, Lestrade," Sherlock rolled his eyes, regretting it when it sent pain through his skull. "I was _there_."

"But John—" Lestrade started.

"Yes," Sherlock interrupted. "I know about John too, obviously." John was fine. Lestrade was stupid. Sherlock was glad all of that had been tied up so nicely.

"Oh."

Sherlock was not interested in this conversation anymore. It was boring and his head hurt. John was sitting beside him. This conversation was irrelevant.

Lestrade ruined the moment of everything being fine, "Moriarty got away."

Sherlock's undamaged hand curled into a fist, an unexpected response to a new anger, "How did that happen?"

"He survived the blast, just like you, and was evidently removed by those he employed. We don't know if he is alive, we don't even know where he is."

"Well, that's a result of your incompetence, isn't it?" Sherlock said, his voice emerging far more stable than he felt internally.

"You blew up a goddamn building."

"Yes," Sherlock, sighed. "Which should have made it very easy for you to collect Moriarty's injured or dead body. In the end I set things up very nicely for you and you screwed up."

"I—"

Sherlock cut Lestrade off, smoothly, "It's fine, really. I don't expect much of Scotland Yard anymore. In all honesty, I never have."

**That's all for now, folks. The guesses have been pretty close so far! Keep it up. :)**


	4. Shock

**So, not a lot of editing done here. I'm in a bit of a rush tonight. Anyway, I hope you like it! Thanks for all the reviews. You guys are amazing.**

Lestrade stood, "I'm going to go do some follow up."

His voice was a growl and Sherlock wondered why he had not started yelling yet. This was highly uncharacteristic. Lestrade was a yeller when Lestrade was very angry and Lestrade found Sherlock irritating on the best of days.

Sherlock looked at John and back towards Lestrade, who was still hovering at the door.

"Why are you still here?" Sherlock inquired, innocently enough. That innocence was enough to make Lestrade's fuming escalate.

"To be honest, I'm a little reluctant to leave you alone right now," he still sounded angry, but there was certainly concern there.

"I'm not alone."

"No, I suppose not," Lestrade answered with a sigh. "I suppose you're never alone with that big old brain of yours."

Sherlock, of course, had been referring to John, who was still sitting quietly beside him. Clearly, Lestrade needed to rest his mind so that he could regain his cognitive abilities.

"So, do you think I'll be getting out of here soon?" Sherlock asked John, his eyes closing to block out the harsh hospital lights.

"Drink your water, Sherlock."

"That sounds suspiciously like a no," Sherlock said, groping for the water with his eyes closed. Rather than handing Sherlock the glass, Sherlock opened his eyes and looked over as he felt John grab hold of his wrist and guide his hand to the water. Sherlock started to drink quickly, but John said, "Sip, Sherlock."

"Honestly, John," Sherlock started, but was cut off by a sudden wave of nausea. He snatched the bowl from between his knees and coughed loudly. John patted his back lightly, uttering something that seemed like it should have been reassuring. John continued to mutter non-sense as Sherlock vomited the meagre amount of water he had just consumed into the bowl. Lestrade pushed the curtain aside and pried the bowl from Sherlock's hand before settling back into his chair.

"I see you're feeling better," Lestrade said, seeming to have calmed.

"Shut up."

"Touchy."

"Irrelevant."

"I need to take your statement."

"Let me alone, Lestrade," Sherlock sank down into the hospital bed. "I'm clearly ill."

"Do as you're told, Sherlock," a voice chimed from behind the curtain. Sherlock smiled at Mrs. Hudson as she poked her head around the curtain.

Sherlock gave a nod, but didn't speak.

"Mrs. Hudson," Lestrade started, but she cut him off with a smile.

"I'll go fetch some tea, so you boys can talk."

Sherlock noted that she had been crying too. It was not very often that he could draw that particular conclusion, so he told Lestrade everything. Well, almost everything.

"And then everything exploded."

"Yes, that was definitely one of your finer moments."

"It's not even the largest explosion I've ever produced," Sherlock crossed his arms across his chest as he finished his tale.

"I feel as though I should be more surprised."

"Why are you still here?" Sherlock asked, bluntly. He felt no need to waste time with subtlety, not when he was so nauseous.

"There's an awful lot of paperwork involved with blowing up a building."

"Paperwork that could be more efficiently completed at a desk, with paper."

Lestrade ran a hand through his hair, "Yeah. Well, I get to worry about my people when shit like this happens. And John..."

Sherlock saw John look up upon hearing his name, but then Mrs. Hudson was back with tea. A mug for everyone, but John. Sherlock couldn't help but find her exclusion of her other tenant a little strange, but he would have to observe their interaction further before he made a hypothesis. Sherlock rolled the mug between his hands, but did not drink it.

"Why aren't you drinking, Sherlock, dear?" Mrs. Hudson queried.

Sherlock didn't reply, so Lestrade filled in, "I don't think he's feeling quite up to tea yet, Ms. Hudson."

"Poor dear," she said and began to fuss. Sherlock was beginning to wish that everyone would just go away so that he could think. He was so quiet that eventually Mrs. Hudson wrapped her small arms around him and began to talk in a thick voice, "I'm quite sorry, Sherlock. You needn't worry about the rent for awhile, okay? Don't you even worry about getting the milk."

Sherlock looked at her in faint confusion; everyone was acting out of their normal parameters today, "John gets the milk."

Mrs. Hudson put on a brave face, but she looked quite disturbed. Sherlock could not fathom why. He was beginning to think that his brain had been damaged in the explosion. As Mrs. Hudson bustled out of the room, Sherlock shook his head, "Fascinating."

"Is that what this is to you, really?" Lestrade snapped, looking very much like a man willing to punch a hospital patient.

"When people act in new ways with no discernable reasoning, I do find it fascinating, Lestrade," Sherlock rolled his eyes and leaned back, looking at John. John seemed to be taking everything in quietly, but in stride.

John spoke quietly, "Sherlock, maybe you should shut up now."

"Why?" Sherlock asked with a huff. "He's being ridiculous."

"_I'm_ being ridiculous?" Lestrade nearly shouted.

"Well, at this point, you're both being utterly ridiculous," Sherlock replied closing his eyes again.

"Both?" Lestrade ran a hand over his face. "What are you one about, Sherlock?"

"You," Sherlock replied, surprising himself by continuing this utterly pointless conversation. "And John. You _both_ are being absurd."

Sherlock crossed his arms across his chest and glared at the shocked expression on Lestrade's face. It was a mixture between horror and awe. Sherlock couldn't help by wonder what he had said to provoke such an expression from a crime-hardened detective.

"Please close your mouth. There is probably a large array of viruses floating around in here and it would probably be in your best interest to block them by closing your mouth."

Lestrade did as he was told, which almost surprised Sherlock. Almost. Clearly Lestrade was shocked to the extent of responding to Sherlock's orders.

"Sherlock..."

"Hm?"

"Sherlock..."

"Out with it, man," Sherlock snapped, beginning to feel dizzy again.

"Sherlock, John's dead, essentially."

**Surprised? Do you believe Lestrade? What were you expecting? Of course there is much more to come. :)**


	5. Disintegration

**Pumped this baby out in just half an hour, so no promises on quality, but I wanted to get through this part so badly. Anway, enjoy the disintegration of our favourite detective.**

Then every fell apart. Literally. Sherlock's entire world disintegrated, both literally and figuratively. Everything had taken on a darker hue, and the very world had become nebulous around the edges. Nothing seemed quite real anymore.

Sherlock _hurt_. Everything hurt more than a building falling on his head and more than all the stitches that littered his back. Oh god, it _hurt. _He could see Lestrade, though even the Detective Inspector had become vague, as if he was fading in and out of reality itself. He was still talking. Sherlock marvelled at the fact that he had not realised the world was dissolving. It seemed so obvious. Other people were so unobservant. Sherlock wondered what it was like in their stupid little brains. Did they even know what it felt like to think?

Lestrade's words drifted hazily between audible and completely mute. Sherlock could see the dark smudge that should have been Lestrade's mouth, if he's stop being so damn blurry, moving even when he heard no voice.

"...thought you knew."

The pain was building, until every inch of Sherlock's body, every fibre of his being screamed for some kind of release. It felt as if he had stuck his finger into a socket. Every muscle fibre in his body had fused together, leaving him helpless to the relentless wrath of the pain that ravaged him. Heart palpitations sent little tremors through him and he felt something blocking his airway. No air seemed to enter his lungs, no matter how hard he gasped. He started to gag, doubling forward. Retching loudly, but still unable to breath.

Lestrade stopped talking then.

Sherlock let out a hiss as Lestrade touched his back. Even the light brush of fingertips felt like burning hot pins being shoved beneath his skin. Everything _hurt. _

Sherlock's vision was tunnelling, partially due to lack of oxygen, but mostly because John wasn't there to tell him to breathe. But he was there. Sherlock could see him, hovering, his hands extended towards Sherlock, but unable to reach him for some unfathomable reason.

It was then that Sherlock realised the cruel, cruel game his own mind had been playing with him. He had always trusted it completely. It was never wrong, so he was never wrong. This time, his true self, his closest friend and enemy had betrayed him. His brain had turned against him, it had made him stupid. His own mind had fabricated its own John, an almost perfect replica, so that Sherlock would not have to bear this feeling, this sensation of being lost in some endless expanse of desert without water, without even air.

"Sherlock," Lestrade`s voice broke through Sherlock`s thoughts momentarily, but soon he was engulfed once more.

His brain had tricked him, taken him as the fool that he must have been. How could he not see through his own ruse? He hadn`t wanted to. It was that simple. He did not want to accept that John was gone, so his own mind had done him the malicious kindness of making it so that he would never even know John was gone. It was his natural defence. His genius had produced a new and horrible way of protecting him. As if he was so fragile. He wondered when he had grown so attached to John. Maybe it was that he felt it was his fault. He had dragged John into his life of criminals and deduction. No. He had saved John from the monotony of civilian life, of normal life. It was so boring out there, but maybe it hadn't been so boring for John. Sherlock had ruined everything, hadn't he? He didn't know, for once, but it didn't matter, because everything around him was almost gone now. He could barely hear Lestrade shout as he slipped into oblivion.

"Sherlock, BREATHE."

He remembered now. He remembered everything. As it should have been from the beginning. He was Sherlock Holmes. He remembered everything of importance, and this was something of the utmost importance. What he saw now, in his mind's eye were John Watson's final moments alive.

He could see the thick dust in the air, he could feel it in his lungs, settling there, making him cough. Coughing felt like a million knives had been lodged in his lungs, so he resolved to restrain himself from doing so again.

_John. _Where was John. Sherlock looked around furiously, barely feeling the ache of his more obvious injuries and feeling nothing at all from his legs. He vaguely considered that could easily be paralyzed, but a large chunk of ceiling colliding with his knee revealed that he retained much sensation in his lower extremities. He knew John was somewhere to his right, away from the water. He saw John`s hand, strewn against the ground, as if reaching towards Sherlock. It was as though John was making some sort of valiant effort to save Sherlock, rather than himself. Of course. That was the only scenario that made sense when it came to John. He would always save another over himself. That had been one of the things that drew Sherlock to him. He was bleeding and still. Too still. Sherlock felt ill. Stillness was a bad sign. John`s face was blocked by debris, though Sherlock strained to see those familiar features again. He could feel his own consciousness slipping again, "John!"

The shout feel on deaf ears, so he kept looking frantically towards John's mangled body, searching for some sign of life. Eventually, seeing nothing, Sherlock`s world finally went dark. Sherlock welcomed the void.

Only it wasn`t a void. It was the hospital room. He opened his eyes to three people hovering over him. Only... one of them was dead. The others were mere details in the room, no more important at that moment than the brand of mattress on which Sherlock laid. Upon Sherlock`s realization that John was dead, the image of John that Sherlock`s mind projected into the world stumbled backwards, landing with a soft thud on the chair at Sherlock`s bedside.

Fake John was covered in dust, debris, and _blood. _Sherlock had been unable to see John`s head before, but now he could clearly see the gaping dent, where he had to have been struck by a piece of the exploding building. The fake John began to lose consciousness in the chair, his life-sustaining, yet fake, blood running down his face like massive, rolling tears, his mouth moving much like that of a fish out of water, gasping for something it would never have again. Air? Water? It didn`t matter.

Something was shaking. It was making it very hard for Sherlock to focus on Fake John`s fake death. Sherlock realised it was his own body. His thin frame was vibrating in an alarming way. He tried to steady his tremors as Fake John disintegrated, like already shattered glass, holding its shape for a split second before turning to dust. Sherlock closed his eyes as the last John, fake or not, left the world forever.

He had never put much credence in the thought of God or Heaven or anything of that sort, but he found himself hoping that John would find them anyway. If anyone deserved the whole eternal peace lark, it was definitely an Afghanistan Soldier, who had served as a doctor and then proceeded to live with Sherlock. Sherlock was not an easy person to live with. The man must have been a saint from the beginning. But no, that wasn't right. John deserved heaven because he was John. He didn't need another reason. He was John Watson. He had an alcoholic sister, a stethoscope, only one nightmare on the best of nights, a mug with a small cat painted on it, which he used to fuel his heightened fixation on tea and... he was Sherlock's friend. He was Sherlock's. Sherlock did not like having his things taken away, so they`d better be going somewhere good.

**Don't know what happened with some of the apostrophes, but I hope you liked it anyway. Please tell me what you thought of this bit, because it was a real thrill to write. **


	6. Reality

**This took a while to get out. IRL stuff is so very boring, sorry. I hope you like this anyway. Enjoy!**

"Sherlock," Lestrade was talking again. God, Sherlock hated when he did that. It seemed like a constant in their lives at the moment and Sherlock hated that kind of repetition. It was boring. However, right now, it was purely irritating. He had no interest in hearing anything, except maybe John's voice. He would give anything for that. But only if it was real, not some cruel trick conjured by his imagination.

The doctor from before was talking now, too, "Mr. Holmes, I need you to take a deep breath. It appears you've had a bit of a panic attack."

Sherlock did as he was told; well almost... he sucked in a giant gasp of air and shut his mouth, refusing to let the air escape. If John had been there he would have been terribly cross at how childish Sherlock was acting, but John wasn't there. John was never going to be there again. Sherlock clenched down harder. Sherlock's throat felt uncomfortably tight. He knew he would have to breathe soon, or risk losing consciousness, but he felt as if his breath would hitch if he did. When did he become so weak? When had John wormed his way so deeply into Sherlock that his very foundation had weakened? If Anderson was dead surely Sherlock would have barely noticed, he might have had something snarky to say about it. Sherlock found himself comparing John to termites, but the comparison felt unfair, because he would never miss termites. Certainly not like this. John was more like water, working his way in, breaking down anything in its path, making the hardest stone as weak as a sugar cube. Sherlock would miss water if he could never have it again.

Sherlock's vision was blurry when he took a gasping breath; he blinked quickly to clear his blurry eyes.

"Sherlock," Lestrade's voice was gentle now, and he reached out to touch Sherlock's arm. His hand stopped short, apparently informed by his brain that Sherlock would in no way benefit from his touch. Finally, Lestrade was learning. Sherlock had no idea that he was capable of such a thing. The thought brought him no amusement.

"What's happening?" Sherlock whispered, hoarsely.

Lestrade looked at a loss, perhaps it was the small, boyish voice that had emerged when Sherlock opened his mouth. He must have sounded as purely lost as he felt.

"Right now," Lestrade sighed. "You are crying."

Sherlock let his unhindered hand reach up and touch his face. It was moist, and the tears gently twanged at the cuts on his cheeks. It had been years since Sherlock had cried. Sure, he cried on crime scenes, a simple technique for getting information, but it had been so long since he had felt emotional pain like this. It was not common for him, because you couldn't lose things you do not have. He found it discomforting that his stability was disintegrating so quickly, with so little warning.

Sherlock did not give in to the tears; he simply let them roll down his cheeks in silence, pondering how long this would go on.

"Sherlock," the doctor said, gently. Everyone seemed to be using that same tone with him now; did he look so horrible, like he might break if a voice rose above a soft whisper?

"What?" Sherlock snapped, trying to raise the volume of the conversation, to show that he was not as weak as everyone seemed to think.

"You need to relax. I know it's hard, but you're so tense and shaking so hard, that you're straining your stitches. I don't want to have to put you under."

Sherlock vaguely considered how nice it would be to have a smoke, or some heroin, right now. He was fairly sure they had something against that in hospitals. John would be— Damn it. John wasn't about to be anything at all. The flow of liquid from his eyes increased.

"I have other patients. Have me paged if he gets any worse," the doctor quickly excused himself, leaving Sherlock and Lestrade alone once more.

"I'm sorry that I didn't tell you sooner. You said you knew about Jo— him, so I assumed..."

"Yes."

"I'm sorry I snapped at you."

"Yes, I imagine you are."

"I'm going to let that slide."

"Making allowances for me now? That hardly makes sense. ...He's dead, not me," Sherlock muttered, unable to force the word John from his lips.

Lestrade made a discontented noise.

"Will you explain 'essentially'?" Sherlock asked quickly, trying to remain removed. He was failing terribly, but the facade was keeping him grounded. His body felt near collapse, like every case that ran more than a week, leaving him malnourished and exhausted. Except this time it was emotional fatigue, which felt much, much worse. He couldn't distinguish why, but it made him very uncomfortable. He planned on stopping this whole emotions bit as soon as he figured out exactly what had caused it.

"What?" Lestrade looked as confused as he sounded. Sherlock was glad that he was still the smartest person in the room, despite any tears shed.

"When you told me... when you said that thing... you tacked on an 'essentially'." Sherlock sighed, never having felt so very lost for words before. They always came so easily, it was a part of his sociopathic charm. He liked that small fact about himself. If nothing else, he had always been well-spoken.

"Oh," Lestrade was no longer meeting his eyes.

"Tell me," Sherlock demanded, leaving no room for argument.

"HesbraindeadSherlock," Lestrade explained in a rush. "They're trying to contact his next of kin... so they can... pull the plug."

Sherlock vomited. On his sheets, no less. He simply doubled over and expelled what little his stomach contained. For a few minutes he dry heaved, feeling Lestrade's eyes on him. He didn't care. His stomach muscles burned as they tensed and relaxed over and over again.

_Pull the plug_... Sherlock lurched again. As if John's life was some kind of dirty water that had to be drained away before he could be of any use. The very image disgusted him. How _dare_ they treat what was his in such a manner.

Lestrade pushed the call button on the wall. A nurse bustled in within seconds, frowning at the sight of Sherlock hunched forward in his bed, vomit between his legs. She was a large woman, looking the very likeness of a ball of pink bubble gum in her florescent scrubs. Sherlock gave a feeble cough as she stripped the sheets and shoved a bowl in his hands.

Sherlock shivered and looked at his bare legs. They were as bruised and battered as anything else. He could clearly see where the ceiling and his knee had met during the explosion. He retched again—the explosion that had killed John Watson. _Essentially_.

His voice was roughed from vomiting when he spoke again, "People wake up from comas."

"Sherlock," Lestrade's voice was strained. Sherlock had no idea that John had meant so much to other people. Sherlock had no idea that John had meant anything to anyone but him.

Sherlock let his head fall forward and closed his eyes. It made the cut on the back of his head ache. He could feel each tear as it hit his legs.

"God," Lestrade muttered. "God, Sherlock, I'm sorry. They don't wake up from things like this. I saw him when they first brought him out..."

Sorry. Sherlock really wished that he would stop saying that. He was not the one that was dead. John was dead... no John was unconscious. His unconsciousness was more serious than that of others, but that was all it was. Sherlock made a snap decision.

"I want to see him."

"No, Sherlock," Lestrade shook his head. "You can't get out of bed right now. Maybe tomorrow."

"I want to see him now."

"Sherl—" Lestrade was cut off by his attempt to stop Sherlock from getting out of the bed. Sherlock had his IV out in seconds, ripping it from his hand, as if it were just a minor inconvenience. His hand was bleeding, but he wasn't going to stop at this point, he had already managed to swing his legs over the edge of the bed. It was a matter of mind, and Sherlock's mind was very, very powerful.

"Sherlock—"

"Help me, or shut up. I don't care. You're function is best served in silence."

Sherlock could see him pressing the call button. The nurses would take longer this time, assuming that they just wanted blankets. They had many more pressing matters to which they had to attend.

The pain Sherlock had been feeling earlier came back in a rush the moment his feet hit the ground, but he would not be deterred. He pushed himself from the bed with a hard shove, sending himself stumbling forward into the curtains. He clung to them, but refused to let the momentum die. The pain shot out of his feet and ricocheted around his body, but adrenaline sustained him. Somehow his body knew that now was not the time to succumb. He ripped back the curtain and stumbled forward uneasily. Still, he felt very dizzy. The ice pick in his brain was suddenly a red-hot poker.

Lestrade followed him, seeming resigned.

Sherlock had been right before, when he thought that John was in the room. Sherlock could smell John. It was a scent characteristic to him, unique. He smelled of tea and soap, the cheapest kind, but it was still the smell of comfort for Sherlock. He hadn't known that fact, until it dawned on him then. Only this time John's smell was different. There was another metallic scent mixed in, overwhelming the others and making Sherlock's stomach turn.

_Blood_, Sherlock realised with horror.

**How do you like it? Crit is so welcome that it's not even funny. I couldn't get into any writing courses this year and I dying for feedback. Anyway, more tomorrow, hopefully. :)**


	7. Mycroft

**I love the tiny, but loyal readership this little fic has. Thanks so much for reading it and reviewing! So, a little later than intended, but still sooner than anticipated. Enjoy! **

Sherlock stumbled forward, so he could see the man he had all but killed. John was sleeping, or that was how he appeared. His features were lax and his chest rose and fell slowly, evenly... too evenly. Mechanical even. Robotic.

Sherlock stared at the machinery maintaining the life of his one and only friend, pumping his blood, pushing oxygen into his lungs. The only thing that stood between John Watson and the great last adventure was a beeping hunk of metal and a couple of plastic tubes. The image was purely terrifying. Sherlock was scared of very little, but this made his heart race and his palms sweat. He swallowed hard.

However, John did not look like a coma patient. His body looked entirely out of place on that bed, mostly because he looked so very alive. Coma patients usually deflate into their beds, over time they look as if they are one with the room, warm pieces of furniture. Their bodies fall into disuse, muscles deteriorate, and joints stiffen. But, John still looked like John. Sherlock's eyes drifted upwards, past the cuts on John's face, past those closed lids, with eyes too still beneath, to _the_ _bandage_.

That was the source of the smell, it had to be. John's head was tightly packed with gauze, blocking the wound from infection and dirt, but also from view. Sherlock's view. He wanted to see the damage that had come as a result of his recklessness, from his stupidity. Sherlock reached towards John's head, slowly becoming aware of the distance between them. He couldn't reach John, but he couldn't force his legs to take another step, either. He was facing a stalemate with his body. In fact, his legs did not seem entirely interesting in standing anymore either, so he sank down slowly, letting his knees come to a hard stop against the tiled hospital floor. It was cold, but the cold seemed to help, seemed to focus his spinning thoughts.

Sherlock allowed himself to think, for just a moment, about what it would be like to lose John Watson forever, to go back to the empty flat at 221B Baker Street. He would never again see John perched on that old chair, reading the newspaper and sipping tea. Could Sherlock even miss something so mundane? He didn't know. He couldn't remember ever missing people before. What had things been like before, anyway, how had he functioned before John Watson was there to buy the milk? John did so much. Sherlock scarcely realised it.

Sherlock had never been lonely before. Bored, yes, but never lonely. He always had work. He had always considered himself married too it. And when he didn't have work he had drugs, very controlled, very distracting drugs. He hadn't needed drugs when he had John Watson. John lessened the boredom and Sherlock never felt lonely with John by his side. He felt lonely now. It felt wrong because being alone was something Sherlock often craved, but not now. Now, he wanted John to bustle about the flat, being distracting and nagging on and on about the appendages in the fridge and the violin playing at all hours.

So, he loved John. It was a sudden realisation that should have been made earlier. Sherlock could concede at least that much. They had spent a great deal of time together and it would probably have been nice to have acknowledged the way Sherlock felt before. Love was something Sherlock reserved for his work and particularly well composed violin pieces. He didn't _love _so much as become obsessed. The love of a sociopath is difficult, all consuming and entirely irresistible. When Sherlock loved something he wanted all of it, to make it all his, forever.

Sherlock didn't feel any kind of sexual attraction to John, not that it was a feeling he could readily recognise. He loved John, but not like a boyfriend or a spouse. John was his friend. He loved John like more than a friend, like a person that belonged to him, but not a lover. Yes, that cleared the definition up nicely. John would have been able to tell him, to clear things up, but Sherlock grimaced at the thought. John wasn't up to telling anyone anything. Maybe their relationship was something that could not be defined by conventional phrases or the Oxford dictionary. They were Sherlock and Doctor Watson. They were a category all their own. And Sherlock liked that.

Someone had to step in now. Sherlock recognised this part of the process. He was not moving towards John's bed, or away, without some form of intervention. Lestrade would do something. He would call someone. Maybe the bubble gum nurse. Usually, someone would call John. Sherlock shuddered and then went still, staring at the bed for what seemed like an eternity. He could see the shape of John's body under the blankets and one of his hands, resting limply to his side, but nothing more from his low perch on the hospital floor.

It was a very long time before anyone said anything, but Lestrade spoke with a small sense of authority when he did, "I've contacted your brother, Sherlock. He knew about the explosion, and will be coming shortly. Do you want to greet him from the floor?"

Sherlock didn't respond, he didn't even blink in Lestrade's direction, so the silence fell again, interrupted only by the sounds of the life-sustaining machinery that tied John to the world of the living.

Eventually, Sherlock heard footsteps. His body responded of its own accord, standing, straightening, and limping him quickly back to his own bed. Lestrade closed the curtain behind them, shielding John from Sherlock's view once again. Sherlock imagined it was better that way. Out of sight, out of mind. Except, it wasn't working. Sherlock doubted there would ever be a way to get John off his mind again.

"Sherlock," Mycroft's greeting was brisk and sufficiently cold. Sherlock had hardly been expecting a hug. He was not disappointed. "Nice of you to pull yourself off the floor for me."

"Mycroft."

"I had no idea you had grown so fond of him. He doesn't seem your type at all."

"Oh, please," Sherlock muttered. "Do get over yourself, Mycroft. It's hardly fitting for you to be so presumptuous. Haven't you a war to start? I can only imagine how testy some nations get when there's no blood being split."

"My brother has been injured, am I supposed to ignore that fact? I do worry."

"If at all possible."

There was silence for a few minutes, but Mycroft did not leave, though he did not take a seat either.

"Harriet Watson will be arriving early tomorrow morning. She'll have papers to sign, so you will not see her until noon. Try not to make a fuss, will you? With the elections in—Well, let's just say, I don't have the time to play Mummy for you."

"No one asked you to do a thing, Mycroft," Sherlock snapped, feeling quite small, quite suddenly.

Mycroft moved towards the curtain, before pausing and turning back to Sherlock for one last jab.

"Crying, Sherlock? How very pedestrian of you."

Sherlock scrubbed hard at his eyes and flopped over, facing away from his brother and from Lestrade, who had retreated for the time being.

"Mycroft?" He asked, keeping his voice dangerously even.

"Yes?"

Sherlock could tell that he was smiling. He hated that Mycroft could so easily read him.

"Find him. Try your best not to kill him."

"Why?" he was still smiling. "You want to let the law deal with him. It's antagonizing slow that way."

"I like antagonizing slow, besides I'd like to reserve the pleasure of killing him for myself."

"As you wish."

Then Mycroft was gone.

"You can't kill Moriarty," Lestrade commented, sinking into his chair with a tired sigh.

"I see no reason why not."

"Well, there is the whole law thing. Society tends to frown on murderers."

"That is Mycroft's only purpose. Besides, I care little for the conventions of society," Sherlock muttered.

Lestrade shook his head, "I am going to go home and get cleaned up. Try to get some sleep and don't wander about harassing any of the hospital staff. It will get back to me."

"And what will you do about it?"

"Nothing at all, Sherlock," Lestrade sighed and then he was gone. Of course he would do nothing, Lestrade thought Sherlock was hurting. Sherlock _was_ hurting, of course. Sherlock knew Lestrade barely considered Sherlock a friend, despite having known him for so long, but still Sherlock was a part of his life and loyalty ran deep with people like Lestrade. Sherlock had always used small facts like that to his advantage, but not now. Now it just seemed inconvenient, and maybe a little... good.

Sherlock let his eyelids slip closed and let himself sink into the hold of his nightmares. All of them were about explosions and... John.

**I hope you liked it! I don't think I'll be posting anything before Thursday, maybe Friday. I'm in a bit of a lurch when it comes to inspiration on this story, so any reviews certainly help. Thanks! See you soon.**


	8. Harriet

**Sorry for the wait. I hope everyone had a lovely holiday. Enjoy!**

Sherlock woke to voices. At first he could not determine their origin, and his head throbbed angrily when he tried to think of the many possibilities behind their sudden appearance. He had no idea how long he had slept, so it was difficult to determine even the time of day. The time spent unconscious had done nothing for his poor injured brain, and the injuries that littered his body only seemed more painful with time. At least the nausea had dissipated. Sherlock was certainly thankful for that much.

Sherlock sat up slowly, ignoring the burst of pain that emerged from his brain and threatened to send him back into the darkness. His eyes opened slowly to the well-lit room. He winced and slammed them shut. It had to be late morning, judging by the light, and there was no one perched at his bedside. Lestrade had gone home and judging by the way his cologne had dissipated he would be back soon enough. Sherlock wondered idly if everyone had simply lost interest in his pain, but he quickly dismissed the idea, coming to the conclusion that he really didn't care either way. They would be back. They always came back. The voices were growing quieter. They were not receding, just falling into pained whispers.

Sherlock shot up, rigid in his bed. He knew what was going on. Harriet. Sherlock tore back the sheets, completely disregarding his pain and the tear of stitches on his back, effectively ripping his IV from his hand once again. He stumbled through the curtain, steadier on his feet than before and came face to face with a woman that looked remarkably like John, if he had been far more feminine. She was of average height, average weight, and had a faint imprint where a wedding band once rested on her right ring finger. This had to be Harriet, the recent divorcee of Clare.

Sherlock could smell alcohol. It was very faint. It was not on her breath, but rather her skin and clothes. She had been drinking the night before, but nothing remained from that experience besides a significant hangover and lingering smells. Sherlock imagined that the hangover was nothing compared to seeing her brother lying prone in a hospital bed, his life sustained only by machinery. The thought made him feel uneasy.

"Harriet Watson," that was usually the point in the conversation where Sherlock would choose to amaze everyone with a well-hidden fact about the person to whom he was speaking, but he found himself staring instead at the space between Harriet and John's bed, unable to shift his gaze in either direction. John was... and Harriet looked too much like John.

"W-who are you?" Harriet sputtered, seeming more angry than shocked. That wasn't much like John at all.

The doctor stepped in, "Ms. Watson, this is Sherlock Holmes."

"Let me rephrase the question. What the fuck are you doing in my brother's room, _Mr. Holmes_?"

"Harriet," Sherlock let out a long suffering sigh, as if all of this was far too obvious to explain. "You are here not just because your brother is dying, but because you recently walked out on your wife and now you're losing the last person who cares about you, who even bothers to talk about the alcoholism that killed your father and will likely be the cause of your own death. I am here—"

"Shut up."

"Because—"

"Seriously. Shut up before I punch you, or after. I don't really care," she was standing abrasively, her fists clenched. Like most people she was not interested in hearing the truth, a fact only supported by her pain over losing her only brother. Sherlock recognised all of these facts. He honestly did, because that was what he always did, but he did not stop talking. Another mistake in a long line of blunders.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes—"

"Am I supposed to be impressed?" Harriet interrupted with a snap.

Sherlock only had the opportunity to nod once before he witnessed Harriet's right fist flying towards his face. He thought about dodging. He was good at dodging punches. A surprisingly large number of people had tried to punch him in his lifetime, but in the end it did not seem worth it. He almost felt that he deserved whatever she had to give him. This was his fault, after all. So, he looked Harriet Watson in the eyes and her fist met his face with a surprising amount of force, sending him sprawling back against the curtain that divided his bed from John's.

When Sherlock opened his eyes he was being propped up by the doctor with the ginger kitten. Sherlock thought his name was Smith, but that was just a guess based on the doctor's ethnicity and the commonness of the name. Smith was shining a light in his eyes again. Sherlock had grown tired of that procedure ages ago.

"I already have a concussion, Doctor," Sherlock gave another sigh.

"Yes and a secondary head injury could put you in a coma, as well, Mr. Holmes. I would appreciate it if you avoided confrontation for awhile."

"I suppose you would. Less work for you. But people don't really like me. Confrontation is a daily inconvenience."

Smith shook his head and helped Sherlock to his feet.

Harriet was crying.

Sherlock approached her again, "To be a fair deal more direct, Harriet, I was in the explosion, too. I am your brother's flatmate and the reason he was in that explosion at all."

She was tensing, ready to punch Sherlock again, but Smith laid a hand on her shoulder in warning. She let her fists fall still at her sides.

"And?" she prompted.

"And... I think I might be sorry. It's a new sensation so I cannot be completely sure, but your brother is my only friend so at the very least I feel very, very alone at the moment."

It did not make sense for Sherlock to be so open with this woman, but she was hurting and he was experiencing something he thought might be hurt, so it made a small amount of sense to manipulate that on the way to his goal: saving John.

"Well, then you might want to say your goodbyes. I'm here to do the same. They're pulling the plug this afternoon," she spit at him, apparently not taken by Sherlock's heartfelt, and in his opinion overly emotional, display.

"No."

He had shouted. He hadn't even realised that he was shouting until he had stopped.

"Mr. Holmes, he's brain dead. There is nothing more we can do. You have to let him go," Smith insisted quietly, a strong contrast to Sherlock's bellow. "Ms. Watson has already signed the papers."

"No." The word was nothing more than a whisper this time and Sherlock had never felt so out of control. Not even his own vocal cords cared what he wanted.

"It's not your decision."

Sherlock could stop this. He knew he could. He just had to think. Just use these unusual emotions to his advantage... to make Harriet emotional. Make her give John a chance. He had to mimic the emotions he knew she was experiencing so that they were on the same side. She would listen to him then, she would feel like it was her call when really he was manipulating her. It was simple.

Sherlock catapulted himself forward, finding himself situated between Harriet and the Doctor and John's bed. He shifted closer to Harriet. A symbolic gesture. _I'm with you._

"Don't kill him. Give him a chance. He's so strong. He always has been. You can just kill him," he echoed what was going on in her head quietly, the thoughts that had to be running through her mind a mile a minute. He threw in one of his own thoughts for good measure. To sound genuine, "People wake up from comas."

Harriet was breaking already. Sherlock could see it in her stance. This was too easy.

"Mr. Holmes—" Smith began, but Sherlock cut him off quickly.

Sherlock couldn't let him ruin it, "Give him time. He was a soldier for goodness sake. He can fight this!"

"It's Ms. Watson's decision, Mr. Holmes."

"Yes, not yours," Sherlock snapped, effectively turning himself into Harriet's ally against a common villain, the doctor who was trying to make her kill her brother. That was untrue, of course, but it didn't matter as long as Sherlock's manipulation was effective.

Harriet walked towards John, ghosting a hand against his cheek, undoubtedly feeling how warm he was. Sherlock knew she was close to breaking, she was currently wondering what John would want.

So, Sherlock whispered the answer, "He's a fighter. Don't take away his chance to fight. Give him a week. I'll find a way to bring him back. Give him a week to come back to us."

Her eyes were suddenly on his. He wiped his face clean of emotion. He had blown it. _Us. _He had made it _too_ personal. He had made it partially his decision. Harriet was an independent she wouldn't like that one bit.

Moments passed and she was still looking into his eyes. Then she nodded, apparently she had found what she was looking for. Maybe he hadn't been as blank as he had thought.

"I think he's right. He's a git, but John would want time. Besides, there are more people who have to say goodbye. Another week won't hurt anyone."

Sherlock didn't mention that it could very well hurt potential recipients of John's organs.

He had won. He had bought time.

"Holy shit," Harriet exclaimed, as soon as Sherlock turned to look at John. Smith was on Sherlock immediately, moving him away from John. Sherlock was aware of a pain in his back as he was removed from John's side of the room, watching his friend grow smaller on the pristine hospital bed. John looked so very, very tired. Sherlock closed his eyes as the curtain fell to block his view of his only friend. He felt an uncomfortable wetness spreading down his back and realised that his stitches were proving to be more of a problem than anticipated. He dragged his hand across his face, unintentionally smearing the blood from his IV hand across his forehead. Sherlock imagined that he looked a right sight sitting there covered in blood. He didn't care. He had won.

**Series 2 will be back on January 1st! Please review and share your excitment. :)**


	9. Psych Ward

**Sorry for the wait, but hey, at least you had the new episodes to entertain you! I loved them both, but the first was definitely my favourite. Enjoy!**

Harriet had been right when she had said other people would want to say goodbye. They filtered in an out of the room regularly, but Sherlock remained closed behind his curtain, sitting cross-legged on his own hospital bed, trying to figure out a way to bring John Watson back. He sat through expected tearful visits from old lovers of John's and less expected tearful visits from army buddies, presumably ones John had saved. Sherlock had never known how well-loved John was, because John was his. He often forgot that John had been anything before he had been the best friend of Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock imagined John forgot that himself, sometimes. Sherlock tried to avoid John's old acquaintances, especially when they cried.

He was caught a few times, when he had to go to the bathroom or take medication. They would stare at him, he could see it dawn in their eyes that he had heard every word they had whispered to John. Sherlock imagined they considered those words very private, he _knew_ some of them were _very _private. He had no idea how many male friends of John's though he had a nice bum. Sherlock knew it was his hospital attire and the injuries that speckled his face that kept him from any sort of assault sometimes.

It was at night that he emerged from hiding to sit by John's side. Sherlock had not slept or ate since he made his promise to Harry. This was a case. He imagined John would not like the idea of being a case. Sherlock had read entire books on the matter, but nothing he tried seemed to help.

Sherlock Holmes was a factual man. When the impossible had been eliminated, whatever remained, no matter how improbable, had to be the truth. So, why did he still believe John was in there somewhere? He had no idea. He wondered if facts had ever fit well with John.

People visited him. He refused to see them. Nurses brought food. He refused to eat. The cycle went on.

Smith entered his room late one afternoon with a very concerned expression upon his face.

"Mr. Holmes," Smith said softly, as if he were afraid of breaking Sherlock out of his reprieve. Sherlock was laying flat on the bed, his hands steepled beneath his chin, an obvious sign that he was submerged deeply in his own thoughts.

"I understand you haven't been eating, or sleeping. I am required by the board to ask if you personally believe that you require mental treatment due to the trauma you have endured. If you cannot give me a satisfactory answer then I will set you up for a psych evaluation."

Sherlock's eyes remained glued to the ceiling while Smith waited in silence for his answer.

"Mr. Holmes," the doctor prompted, rather impatiently.

Sherlock's intense eyes were red-rimmed and deeply shadowed. In the strongly lit room the hollows of his too-thin face were accented to a frightening degree. Smith found himself easily comparing him to someone who had abused drugs for years. Sherlock glared at him with all the intensity of a wild animal about to strike its prey. Sherlock Holmes looked like the kind of man who went for the kill with every strike. A small wave of panic bloomed somewhere deep inside the young doctor and he found himself unnerved by the icy anger in the eyes of that man. The panic welled over him and dispersed quickly. Sherlock saw all of this occur in the blink of an eye.

"Doctor, I am your patient in body only, and at the moment my body no longer requires your services. I take your medication and I stay here because that is what is required for my body to continue its function as transport for my mind. I regard you as I regard all other medical items. To me, really, you are no more significant than a used sticking plaster."

Sherlock watched with a feeling he supposed could be equated to watered-down horror as Smith's expression hardened. Sherlock likely should have chosen this one time to say something kind, or at least not compare the doctor to something that belonged in the rubbish bin.

"That was not a satisfactory answer, Mr. Holmes. Someone from the psych ward will be down to see you this evening," with that, he exited the room with a flourish.

Sherlock flopped back into this thinking position for a moment before giving in to the urge to talk to John. Sherlock took the seat by John's bed, and looked down at his friend with a sigh.

"This is ridiculous," he sighed heavily again. "Really, John, I've read books that say coma patients can hear and may even heal faster if someone talks to them. You've had plenty of people in here talking to you. Apologising mostly, but I can hardly expect you to come back for something as boring as apologies; they're too final, anyway. So, let's discuss—or let's let me discuss— the fact that I am evidently going mad without you. Our lovely doctor has me scheduled for a psychological evaluation today. I do hate medical professionals; they always want to be the smartest people in the room, which, of course, is impossible when I also occupy that particular space. Besides, a few minutes of talking with me and the shrink will have me committed. People simply do not react well to my superior intellect."

There was silence from John, but Sherlock was hardly expecting anything else.

"No offense, by the way. You're one medical professional that I do not hate in the slightest. Sure, it's annoying when you tell me to eat or sleep or get the thumbs out of the crisper, but I am apparently incapable of hating you. I recently came to the realization thatIloveyou—"

More silence. Heat flooded to the tips of Sherlock's ears.

"Actually, I hope you didn't hear that."

Nothing. Sherlock took a deep breath and continued, "They tell me to eat and sleep here, too. But I can't, I'm on a case. _Your_ case, John. I'm going to figure out a way to get you to wake up. Preferably, before the end of the week, given that they intend to kill you if I can't. Any ideas?"

Silence.

"Well, you keep thinking on it, John. I'll do the same. We'll see who comes up with a solution first. If you could speak, I imagine you would put your money on me."

Sherlock sighed and let the one-sided conversation lapse into silence while he stared at his friend, studying the features beyond the bandages and blood. John still looked like John. Sherlock pulled his knees up and rested his chin upon them. He wished he had his violin. John almost always woke up in the night when Sherlock played his violin.

"Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock spun around in the chair, nearly twisting himself right out of it.

"Sherlock," said a woman standing only a few feet behind him. Her attire suggested a working professional, and her clipboard suggested medical. This had to be his evaluator. John would have found her attractive. Sherlock realised that she was waiting on his answer. He chose not to speak. Maybe if he was silent for long enough, she would simply leave.

"Sherlock, I think it would be best if we returned to your side of the room.

Silently, and with a shocking new obedient streak, Sherlock stood and followed the woman behind the curtain. He collapsed backwards on the bed, allowing himself to think clearly once again.

"Sherlock, my name is Doctor Carleton," she began. "We just need to talk for a little bit, so I can get a sense of the kind of help you might need."

All of Sherlock's intent to stay silent faded away, "The person in need of help right now is not me."

"Is that a threat, Mr. Holmes?"

"No, no, no," Sherlock said, exasperated, throwing his arms towards the ceiling with a heavy sigh. "_John_ is the one in need of assistance. I need to help him. I don't have time for you, or any of your psychological babble."

Carleton seemed to relax, "I see, so you are very worried about your colleague?"

"Friend."

"Alright," she said weakly. "The nurses tell me that you haven't eaten since you arrived. How long has it been since you slept?"

"About the same."

"Why is that?"

"Waste of time."

"And eating?"

"Digestion takes work, I need all of my resources dedicated to thinking. I need to think of a way to save John Watson. Eating is completely unnecessary, anyway."

Carleton's face creased with concern, "That's a very dangerous way of living, Sherlock. I also understand that you may have hallucinated that your friend was alive and in your room. That's very concerning. I think it might be a good idea if we started meeting more regularly, perhaps, if you came to my office—"

"Let's cut the small talk. You think I'm a _wee_ bit mad and maybe you should institutionalize me, before I hurt myself, but you're not sure yet. You like to be sure. It's clear that I am sleep deprived and possibly in some form of psychological shock. You also have control issues. That's why you are a psychiatrist. You like being in control of the lives of other people, almost as much as you like helping them. You don't want to jump to conclusions, but you've lost patients before due to inaction so you want to continue our session with further detail in your own environment, an environment you can control. So, I shall have to politely decline your offer, for I have a significant amount of thinking to do, and the time I have left to do it is very quickly dwindling away so—"

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively in her general direction.

**What was your favourite episode of Series 2, so far? :)**


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